


One

by sc010f



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blindness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has lost his sight, but he still dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One

John can remember a world with sunlight. He can remember a world with London mist swirling around him, a world where the light was thin and brittle, like glass – grey in the desert and the shining white bowl of the sky. 

Which is why when he wakes from the dreams in which he can see again, tears well in his eyes and his throat tightens as he rolls over, grasping the pillow, biting down to muffle the helpless sobs of furstration.

~*~*~

Sherlock feels the bed shift and hears the helpless gasp beside him. He can feel the mattress shake as John struggles to hide his hurt, the anger and the grief clawing at him from the inside.

It wasn't _so_ long ago that Sherlock had dismissed it, dismissed John. 

_You can learn the flat. We won't shift anything. You'll be fine. You can sleep down here. You'll be able to come with me. Lestrade will find a way. Sally, even, she likes you. She can lead you around. Or a dog. We can get a dog. You'll be fine. Fine. Fine…_

It wasn't _so_ long ago that John had lashed out – goaded beyond measure. 

_It's just transport to you – but it's light and life to me, Sherlock; why can't you see it? Why are you so fucking **blind**?_

The word had hung in the air between them. John had turned, crashed into the kitchen table, knocked over glassware, spilled his tea and cut his hand. 

_You're bleeding._

Moriarty had not managed to kill them – but merely wound them. No. Wound John. Him. Not them. No. It had been them. 

Sherlock wasn't fond of esoteric, metaphorical language. It was a pastime for the likes of Mycroft, reserved for John's clumsy efforts at his blog. But in that moment, when he held John's hand in his own, tea towel pressed to the gash, and looked up to find John _not_ looking at him. Looking at the wall, over his shoulder, the cupbords laden with the detritus of experiments. Not making eye contact, not looking, not _seeing_ anything, he realized. 

_"Stupid," he said._

_"What?" John's voice was startled._

_"Stupid. Me. I… I didn't know."  
He didn't know that John wouldn't be able to tell at a glance the mood he's in. Didn't know that he'd be able to smuggle body parts into the flat without John knowing._

_That is, he knew. He didn't realize._

Except now he does.

~*~*~

A cool hand sliding up his back.

Warm breath on his skin. 

A body pressed against his own. 

The smell of Sherlock – mint from the toothpaste, a whiff of formaldehyde from the morgue today – why didn't he shower when John had told him to – rosin.

"I'm here, John."

In the darkness, they're equals. Like they never would be in the light.

He knows it's ridiculous – he was never Sherlock's equal. Running behind. Always trying to catch up with the brilliant, frustrating, arrogant, ridiculous, amazing man. 

"I'm here."

John draws a shaking breath. 

Sherlock's weight against his back and side. 

" _John_."

He's waiting. Uncertain. John smiles against the pillow. In the darkness, it seems, Sherlock is more lost than he is. And perhapas that's what helps. What makes them equal. Sherlock Holmes' massive intellect – completely incapable of the nuances of emotion. 

He rolls away and onto his side, hand reaching for Sherlock's face. 

"I dreamed of the desert again," he says. 

"John."

Sherlock hasn't shaved. Guided by sensation, by heat, by breath, by sound, John moves forward.

Sherlock meets him more than halfway, pressing his lips to John's. 

John opens his mouth. 

_This. This is what I want. What I need._

Sherlock moans as John licks at his lips, then takes advantage of his open mouth to slide his tongue inside, caressing, teasing, licking. 

_You. You are what I want. What I need._

It's not enough; what begins as tentative seeking, unwillingly searched for comfort, becomes welling desire. 

_I can't do this unless you're here. Do you know that? Did you know the moment when I realized that? When I could still see your eyes?_

That they should come to make love _after_ John has lost his sight is, John realizes once again as Sherlock shifts – pulling him closer, pressing his body against him, letting him feel his hardness – is no less than burningly ironic. 

_That you take me apart, that you allow me to do the same, is no less than a miracle. That we're alive to do this…_

John is hard. Not painfully so, not yet. Merely growing hard with the promise of the sensation of Sherlock's body. The whisper of Sherlock's breath. Hands on his skin. Mouth on his neck, chest, stomach. He shifts as Sherlock pulls down his pyjama bottoms. Hisses as the cool air hits his cock. Groans as Sherlock takes him into his mouth.

_You never call me "idiot" anymore. Not after, not since I shot the cabbie. But now you murmur my name and it's a vow. A promise._

"Sherlock…"

"Let me. God, John, you taste so good."

John clutches the sheets – lazy arousal turning to flame, a pinpoint of wet and heat and tongue and the gasp of his own breath and the sound of Sherlock's mouth against his cock. Minutes? Hours? John loves the way time, once the enemy, glides away upon the heady rush of sensation.

_Please. There. Now. Yes. Please. Please. Please. Please._

Sherlock draws away. 

"Tell me," he whispers.

"Please." It's all John can say. 

He moves away and John is bereft. The mattress dips again, the snap of plastic, the tearing of aluminum, the sharp smell of latex. Cool fingers. 

"Tell me to stop and I will."

_How can I ask you to stop when you're touching me? When you have me under your spell? Caught in the eye of your storm?_

"If you stop," John gasps, his voice ragged, "I will kill you."

Sherlock's dark chuckle shakes the bed. 

Cool fingers. 

_Make me forget. Make me forget the years I was lost without you. Make me forgive you with my body, because I chose you. Because when you asked me if I wanted to see some more, I could not stop the flush of excitement and life._

"Sherlock… I… Oh, God yes…"

A finger, a second. John's moaning now, his cock painfully hard. He brings a hand to himself. 

"Yes, John. Let me see you."

A third, and John gasps. 

"Fuck, Sherlock…"

Fingers withdrawn, but now, Sherlock's close to him. John can feel his weight, leaning against his legs. His hand stills. 

"Just a bit… _there_."

A spasm of pain, burning, the stretch. Sherlock pauses and John can feel his body trembling above his.

"Don't you dare stop…"

"Fuck, John…"

Movement, deep inside him. John begins again to stroke himself. Sweat gathers on the small of his back. 

Sherlock groans.

_Yes. That. There. I need you to show me. Prove to me that… Oh, God. How the fuck am I so incomplete without you? What did I do to… Yes, that. Your hand on my cock. Your breath on my chest._

_I broke._

_My heart._

_My body._

_My soul._

_Broken for you._

_Touch me._

_Heal me._

_Breathe me._

"John, John, John, John…"

"Sherlock – please… I need… Oh, God. Sherlock I'm…"

A pool of heat, tightness. Sherlock's hand. His cock, deep within him. A stuttering, staggering. 

And John is coming and coming, his arms wide in supplication. 

Sherlock jerks against him, John's name on his lips a strangled shout.

_A prayer._

~*~*~

John's forehead is wet with sweat as Sherlock bends to touch it with his own.

A contented groan. 

It could be an "I love you." Sherlock smiles, kissing John.

"I'll get a towel," he whispers, pulling away, moving to the bathroom.

"Mmm. Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock pauses at the door. 

"Promise… you'll come back."

It shouldn’t tear at him the way it does. He shouldn't have given away so much. Held John so cheaply.

"Always," he murmurs. 

In the faint light from the streetlights, Sherlock can see that John is smiling – sated, comfortable. The tightness in his chest is no longer a stranger to him. 

If this is the price that Sherlock will pay for John's love, then he will. Pay it. Again and again and again. 

"Always."

And this time, as he leaves for the bathroom to fetch a damp flannel, he hears it, the quiet voice, drifting on the gentle current of sleep. 

John will never say it when he thinks Sherlock can hear him or see him. 

But here, they are equal. One.

"Love you…"

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. PJ and Bluey again have saved me from my commas...


End file.
